


Barcelona

by Shamandalie



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, also pep and jose banged in barcelona please it's basically canon??, but ok, i'm not sure what is this, they 'hate' each other and almost everybody nowadays hates them and i'm making this about lOVE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 07:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4616862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shamandalie/pseuds/Shamandalie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything they were would fit perfectly in the space between the crook of Pep's neck and José's soft, parted lips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barcelona

He has been so many things, thorough his life.

The sight of green grass, white lines and his father's stories ( _The feeling, the adrenaline, son, it can't be described. You must feel it_ , he used to say, and while he listened, little José with big, greenish brown eyes and so much chocolate hair, his breath was always getting caught somewhere in his throat, and his eyes were always getting wider, and wider with every word leaving his father's mouth) - they made him a footballer. But the grass, the lines - they never were as welcoming as he thought they would be. And his legs, strong and young, they somehow always lacked skill.

So, he changed the pitch, never exactly leaving it, of course, that would be impossible, to a big halls of university, and then to dusted gyms with old equipment, goals without nets, mud instead of grass. To school, in simple words. To the world, where no one really cared about physical education, with little exceptions. The scent of teen sweat, girls deodorants and self loathing was filling his nose every single day, making his life more miserable than he'd ever admit it was.  
It passed, though.

Everything passes, he understood it with time. Some of the things that pass, they take some part of you with them. And that's okay, it really, really is.

Things pass, people pass, places pass. And he, he's been places.

Scotland, to get his managerial license, for example. But now, remembering this interim period of his life brings him some difficulties. He left it at the back of his mind, considering not important.

Everything before Barcelona seemed not important for him. And after Barcelona...well, everything after Barcelona was proving something.  
So.

He's been to Barcelona.

There always were so many ways to describe Barcelona. The city, it was beautiful, and old, and the capitol of Catalonia. The club, integral part of the city, old and proud. _Visca el Barca y Visca Catalunya._  
He never felt it.

His home, it was a land of gold sands, and colorful roofs of Lisboa. Of marines never returning from the sea, and women singing sad but beautiful fado while longing for them.

(But sometimes someone can become home, too.)

Barcelona for him, at first, it was all possibilities. It was English, and Spanish, and words that too many times couldn't be his.

Barcelona then became glances and soft bickering and admiration for someone, someone younger, someone loved by everyone, someone _good_.

Barcelona turned into big, brown eyes, one syllable name, and into thoughts insharable, too scary and too sacred at the same time.

Barcelona was summer coming too early, and soft rain turning into steam even before it touched the grass and the lines. It's wet ball, when it missed the target, and Pep's silent catalan cursing. It's his own laugh, and annoyed look from the younger man, which slowly turned into smile, because. He couldn't be really mad at José, could he.

Barcelona was all the things they agreed about, and entire, the most important, football they disagreed on.

Barcelona was little _mesones_ , the scent of _tapas_ and bitter taste of wine, it was all the streets they wandered together, it was light of street lamps putting shadows on their faces, when they were sitting in calming silence, understanding each other without words, or when they were getting impossibly close to each other, breathing the same air, losing their breaths.

During his life, he had tasted so many things, he had felt so many things; anger, burning low in his stomach and choking him with words, happiness, making him lightheaded, even hate. But nothing, no one, tasted better, made him feel better.

Everything they were would fit perfectly in the space between the crook of Pep's neck and José's soft, parted lips. What they were was Pep closing his eyes and José kissing his eyelids, while thrusting into him in a painfully slow pace, just like they both loved. It was Pep grabbing a handful of José's chesthair, pulling them just to make his lover moan and shiver. It was José grabbing and shoving and leaving bruises, marking his territory, only to caress and kiss and cuddle after they were done. It was Pep,murmuring all the i love you's into Jose's hair or back or whatever place his head ended up laying, and José whispering 'I know' everytime, just to say it back when the younger man has already fallen asleep.  
What they were, it was all the mornings, when José woke up just when the sun has begun to set, and turned to Pep, to wake him up by slowly kissing and delicately biting his neck. It was Pep's sleepy laugh, and uncoordinated moves and his big, puppy eyes begging for forever.

What they were, it was passion, it was understanding, it was _love_.

But what José has always been made of, pride and ambition and control, this all wasn't _them_. This all was something that made them impossible.

So, Barcelona became pain. Barcelona was 'I must go', and 'I'm sorry'. It was lies, all this 'Nothing is more important than my career' and 'I don't love you'. From Pep's side, it was also tears, it was disbelief, and it was anger. It was 'I don't want to see you again.'

In the end (Or after the end, the end happened when they were young and it never became a new begining), Barcelona was _el puto jefe_.  
It was rivalry, it was not looking at each other (or just looking when the other one wasn't), it was all the things that were bad about them.

Now, what Barcelona isn't, is their home. And what it is, it is the moment in man's life when looking back is painful, and looking forward just unbearable. It's the moment when the man realises that all the things he cared about when he was young never meant a thing. It's the painful reality in which he lost something worth living for and he can't change it.

**Author's Note:**

> It's a drabble. (Long one.) They don't have to make sense, ok.  
> I like comments and kudos!!  
> I'm p-lahm on tumblr :)


End file.
